


Closer

by orphan_account



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Request Meme, Romance, UST, hamletmachine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Encke hadn't meant to hurt him. He never does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after the wrist-grabbing scene in chapter 3, page 19. I like to imagine Encke, as badass as he is, is kind of a pussycat around Keeler! Also, I've referenced some things Hamlet has said in past interviews about the differences between fighters and navigators.

“What’s wrong?” Encke asks, eyes narrowed as he looks across the table at Keeler, who hasn’t stopped rubbing at his wrist since he sat down.    
  
Keeler looks up at him, pushing his reading glasses up over the bridge of his nose. “Nothing," he replies shortly. "Why, what makes you think something’s wrong?”   
  
“You haven’t stopped rubbing your wrist since you got here,” Encke tells him, pushing aside the flight-plans for a moment and holding out his hand, palm-up. “Show me.”   
  
Keeler colors slightly and pushes his sleeve down over his wrist. “It’s nothing, Encke,” he mutters. “Really, just drop it; we’ve got a lot of work to get done.”   
  
Encke gives in without another word and allows Keeler to steer the focus back to work. Arguing with him has never done any good, and besides; he’ll never admit that Encke has hurt him—not if it means it’ll take the focus off of what needs to be done.    
  
Encke has always admired Keeler’s fierce work-ethic, but lately he’s been running himself into the ground and it’s starting to take a toll: while Keeler’s always been slender, now he’s just downright thin; bony and pale. Encke would sit with him in the cafeteria at mealtimes and force him to eat if he thought Keeler would let him, but he knows he’s pushing his luck as it is—Keeler is independent and determined; he doesn’t like to be coddled and he counts few as friends. Encke doesn’t want to destroy the relationship they’ve built by pushing him or nagging at him, and so he tries to give him his space where he can. Even if he doesn’t always succeed.    
  
They don’t finish up until after midnight. When they’re finally ready to leave, Encke silently helps Keeler into his jacket and walks him back to his room. They stand there for a moment at the door, Encke feeling unusually awkward, before Keeler lifts a hand to key himself in and his sleeve falls back, exposing his wrist. Of course it is braceleted with bruises, and Encke lets out a slow hiss of breath and catches Keeler’s arm.    
  
“Encke—” Keeler begins.   
  
“You know I didn’t mean to grab you so hard,” Encke interrupts him, inspecting Keeler’s bruised wrist. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened—after spending most of his time with the rough and rowdy fighters, Encke often neglects to be gentle with Keeler when he’s fortunate enough to touch him; forgets how delicate he is. It’s never deliberate, but it’s something he knows he needs to take care to avoid.    
  
He wonders whether Keeler thinks him nothing but a brute.    
  
“Of course I know that,” Keeler tells him then, wearily, and attempts a reassuring smile. “I know you’d never hurt me on purpose, Encke. I told you not to worry about it.”   
  
Encke is suddenly reminded of the key differences between fighters and navigators: While they often mock each other—the navigators labelling the fighters stupid and violent, and the fighters labelling the navigators weak and prissy—Encke respects the differences between them. Because even if the navigators  _are_  physically weaker, they’re often gentler, too; kind and good-natured the way Keeler is. And gentleness is something that’s all too often lacking in a place like this.   
  
He lifts Keeler’s wrist and presses his lips to the back of his hand, hoping he’s not overstepping his boundaries. Keeler flushes prettily but smiles at him, and so Encke decides to take the bold step of touching Keeler’s hair—something he frequently thinks all day about doing—and twists it around his fingers, marvelling at its softness.    
  
Keeler permits it for longer than Encke anticipates, before finally he touches Encke’s shoulder and leans forward on his tiptoes to brush his lips across Encke’s cheek. “Goodnight, Encke,” he murmurs, and Encke has just enough time to breathe in his clean scent before Keeler is gone and Encke is left standing there in the corridor looking at a closed door, a stupid smile on his face.


End file.
